Fragments
by A. Murray
Summary: Life is made of fragments, little pieces building a whole. This is such a collection. ninth installment is posted: "scab"
1. patches

_Disclaimer: _I do not own anything except an extremely prized DVD, the soundtrack, rapid plot bunnies and a handful of original (albeit, generally unnamed and unruly) characters.  
Please don't sue me; I couldn't stand the drama. Well, that and I'm broke…

_Author's Note: _Basically this is and will be a place for all those little snippets of fluff and angst and such the like that I don't really want to classify as one-shots. (Some will be longer than others.) Sometimes the main character will be named, sometimes they won't. A few might relate to others but for the most part they are separate and completely unto themselves. Hope you enjoy!

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_Fragments_

**_patches _**

****

I never got used to it, my imperfection. I never could accept it. I didn't understand it that was for sure. How did one eye just… not work?

My other eye, the good one, matched exactly in color with my mother's -- possibly the only trait that linked me to her as her son. But the other…

Instead of a perfect china blue, the unmoving orb glared gray. Cloudy, empty, ugly, imperfect gray.

There were stares, jokes, jibs, and pricks but in the end I think it was because of my own embarrassment that I did what anyone would do with something painful: I hid it.

Beneath a simple dark cloth, I felt my imperfection was secure, safe from prying cruel eyes. If they didn't see it, they wouldn't question, I reasoned. They wouldn't stare.

Hiding the truth beneath "patches" became something I just did after that. I guess I somehow believed that if it worked for my dead eye then it would work for anything else that caused me pain.

And so many things caused pain back then…

I lived three whole years with my old man after my ma passed away.

Ma was good at hiding things too: the pain, the bruises, the cuts and later the alcohol on her breath and the drunkenness in her eyes. She never could hide it from me though; I guess it took one to know one.

I wasn't really surprised the day she died; I think I had known deep down that she really hadn't been truly living for quite a few years. I didn't cry when they lowered her into the ground. I didn't shed one tear. Friends and family hugged me and words of sympathy threaded from their tongues but I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. I had buried my pain; I couldn't dig it up again.

It was three years later when everything changed.

It hadn't been the first time he had hit me, and it definitely hadn't been the hardest. But there was something about the way and the force and his anger that made this time different. Something about what it did to me…

I remember that day clear; I don't think I can ever forget. It was the day I stopped hiding.

I don't remember exactly what I did to my old man that day but it was as if every hurt, every pain…everything I had ever buried away burst forth seeking justice. He was my outlet and I gave him back everything he and the world had ever given me; given ma.

I screamed. I cried. Everything I should have said before poured out amid my furious fists. I felt anger. Loss. Freedom.

I became her voice that day too. Little as she had ever done for me when she was alive, I cried out against him for my mother that day too… then I left and never looked back.

Pain is something everyone must deal with; it cannot be buried or hidden. Sure, "patches" can work for a time but sooner or later, what's beneath must surface. Many times we think facing or dealing with the pain is too hard but letting it amass and fester has a much more dangerous and destructive consequence. I was twelve the day I learned that.

I still know pain, despair and heartache these days. Heck, who doesn't? But I don't lock them up anymore, away from others -- others, I learned, who don't always cast a critical eye.

And my eye?

Oh, I still wear a patch but these days it's become more like a trademark than the covering of an embarrassment. It's like a souvenir keeping me connected with the past, both the highs and the lows; the miseries and my masteries over them…

Plus, it drives the girls crazy.

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_**A / N**:_ Ok, so what did you think? Good…? Bad… ? Rotten… ? Review and tell me… please! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated… everyone can improve right? 


	2. speak

_Shout Outs:_ Ubber thanks to **keeper-of-mauve-paradise**, **madmbutterfly713**, **elleestJenn**, **ChocolateCoveredJockey**, and **Sprints 100 **for reviewing on _patches_! (Blushes) I am so glad you liked! You guys are such a great encouragement and were truly my driving-force for this second _Fragments _installment! I do hope this one also pleases even though it's fluffier than the last. As I said before, don't forget to let me know!  
You guys are the greatest!

_Author's Note: _For the record, I wasn't planning on making this a collection of history pieces –as you will see from the following installment- but that's just how the first one turned out.  
However, I did like how _patches _turned out so I may pen some more "histories" in the future iffen everyone wants…

_Disclaimer: _I don't really need to do this do I? Everyone knows I don't own… why would I be writing stuff like this iffen I did! Oi! Well, whatever… I suppose to keep from getting sued (because I am still broke) I will affirm it again: I do not own Newsies nor anything connected. I only claim the unnamed character below and the rabid,insomniac plot bunnies from which this idea came… well, them and endless hours of sappy songs! Ug... I am such a sap!

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_Fragments_

**_speak _**

He leaned casually in the doorway, his long legs crossed, a cigarette pressed firmly between his lips. He just stood there, watching her; his eyes seeming to state an impassiveness to her actions.

She briefly surveyed him, trying to make her prayerful gaze as nonchalant as his stance. His eyes caught hers and for a moment she thought she saw something there. A small cloud of smoke poured from his mouth and nostrils then and as suddenly as that something had appeared, it was gone. A heavy weight lowered upon her heart as she placed another of her belongings into her bag.

The truth pounded painfully in her mind: He wasn't going to stop her.

All he had to do was ask her to stay and she would. Heck, all he had to do was show that he cared one way or another and that would be enough! She tossed another shirt in her aged duffle as another agonizing second of silence ticked away.

All he had to do was speak! But no, he just stood there and watched, silent; his cigarette growing shorter and shorter with each steady drag.

Suddenly she was assailed with a myriad of emotions. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. Thoughts of laughing hysterically and ripping every bunk from this room crossed her mind more than once. She felt anger. Hurt. Longing.

She hated him. She wanted to walk right up to his emotionless face, pulled the fading cigarette from his mouth and punch him. She had done it before; it wouldn't be hard to do again.

But she couldn't for, though she hated him, she loved him also… andhe didn't even knowit.

Again, and possibly not for the last time, tears threatened to flood her eyes. Swiftly she brushed the back of her sleeve across her face, wiping away the moisture there and regaining her firm composure.

Slowly she drew the strings on her duffle, closing the top tightly around everything she owned in the world. She prayed wistfully her deliberate actions would give fate enough time to intervene.

She reached the doorway. She slung her duffle over one shoulder and slapped her faded cap indifferently upon her head. She didn't dare look at him as she continued past him through the door but she could feel his eyes upon her. For a second she thought he might, and wished desparately that he would speak, even to say goodbye, but he remained mute.

As she passed beyond his sight, she lost the strength to hold back her tears. With a hushed sob they rolled freely down her cheeks. Fate hadn't intervened...

Suddenly a hand enclosed around her wrist, jerking her attention backward. His eyes locked on her hers, softening at the sight of her pain.

He ripped the ashy cigarette from his mouth and pulled her toward him. She looked at him, only inches from his dark face; speechless as he slipped the duffle from her shoulder and let it drop to the ground.

"What…" She began but he tapped a finger to her lips, quieting her. Then he bent and kissed her.

He was not forceful or possessing with his kiss but gentle and imploring. It seemed a thousand words and emotions dwelled within that kiss; a thousand things he had never before felt the courage to voice or do. There was urgency present as well, as though this hidden part of him needed to be free; needed her to know. And suddenly, she did know. As clear as if he has spoken it, she knew he wanted her to stay.

Lost in his passionate kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. A declaration of love, it seemed, needed no words after all.

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_**A / N**:_ Well, you asked and I wrote! Hate it... ? Love it... ? Please review and let me know! Anything I should work on... ? Should I stop writing completely... ? 


	3. reunion

_Author's Note: _I have returned! YAY! Did you all miss me? I know you did. I missed me too: Anyway, I am back and hoping to have a truckload of fics up for your reading pleasure. Ok, so maybe not that many but a have a good few waiting for a final run-through on my com so…  
Not really sure what brought me to write this short ditty because it was so long ago that I penned it that I just don't remember. Anyway, it's a bit un-conclusional but I still hope you like. Feedback of any kind is loved!

_Disclaimer: _Blah. Blah. Blah. Don't own. Blah. Blah. (wipes away tears) Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.

_Shout Outs_:  
Thanks to **Sprints 100**, **elleestJenn**, **Zero-0**, **ChocolateCoveredJockey**, **Margaret Faith**, and **Gryffindor's** **Newsie**! You all rock my world and are the super sweetest readers in the whole world! Thank you oh so very mucho!

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_Fragments_

_**reunion **_

It was a stormy night in early September. The sky crackled and rumbled with a thousand tones of thunder and the air was pierced with a definite pre-winter chill. The rain fell steady and hard from a moonless sky. It was a dismal evening to be sure, the kind that hurried wayfarers back to their homes and beside warm fires.

He stood beneath the shadow of a streetlamp, a sight for a night of this weather. His long, worn overcoat was turned up at the collar, his head bare. Rain splattered against his face, clinging tight to his unshaven chin. Should anyone have taken any notice of him; they would have given him no more thought than they would one crazy. For, surely, who else would stand so poorly sheltered on such a night? They would have been far from the truth in their presumptions, however, as there never was a man more sure-minded.

His dark eyes narrowed against the falling rain as he gazed at the building before him intently. Warm welcoming light poured from behind sparkling windowpanes. His heart beat quick and hard with nervousness; his palms were hot with anticipation. He dug his hand into his pocket and touched the faded photograph which rested there. As he traced the edges, he envisioned every detail of that treasured possession.

Smiles were the light of that captured moment. Oh! and it was a time to smile! He saw his own face, bright and proud. He saw hers, eyes brimming with love and joy. And in her arms she held him, their son, bright-eyed as he took in the new world. The man felt a knot of emotion lodge in his throat. It was a glorious time of his life that was imprisoned in the tiny square. A time before everything went so horribly wrong.

But all that was past. Now was the time for new beginnings. Now was the time to recapture the glories of the lost and missed. With a renewed purpose, he ducked through the rain andtoward the large building.

&&&

His footsteps rung loud in the silence that draped over the entry as he stepped inside. Dozens of boys of all ages piled on the floor, the counters, the stairs and staggered seats. Eyes clung to his frame, face and eyes as he approached the counter behind which an old man stood. Wonder, curiosity and apprehension hung thick in the air. He could feel their gazes; he dared himself not to look, not to search.

A quake began in his hands; he had tried so many times and with no success. Would this time be different?

"What can I do fer ya sir?" The elderly man inquired kindly.

"I'm lookin' for someone." The man explained quietly. Kloppman smiled a crinkly smile and flipped back the cover of a thick book.

"Take a look." He offered. "See if ya recognize someone."

A dozen and more names lunged out at him. _Skittery, Brumlets, Two Bit, Snipes, Cowboy, Pie Eater, Jockey, Kid Blink, Gruff... _the ledger continued on in such a matter. Some scripts were small and tight, some barely more than scribbles. Some were large, precise and bold and there were even a few X's. Yet, as he read, the name he desired was not to be seen. His shoulders fell and the sadness of defeat spread across his chest.

"He's not here." He shut the cover with a firm hand and pushed the book back across the counter. The old man frowned and leaned forward.

"Ya know, some a dese boys, they don't use there given names anymore." A few cheers of approval rose from the scraggly group and Kloppman waved them into silence as he continued, "Maybe youse should ask one a dem?"

The man turned, his eyes searching the boys for any sign of familiarity. He took a deep breathe and dared to hope...

"His name's Francis." He said softly, hopefully. "Francis Sullivan. And… and he's my son."

A hush fell upon the room; minutes ticked away. Then, after what seemed an eternity of silence, a scuffle of feet came from the stairs and a tall dark-haired youth slowly stood.

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**A/N: **Told you it was un-conclusional. But I think it works this way. 


	4. tower

_Author's Note:_ Hi again! I'm back! Ok so this is kinda like the last one in that it's really truly a fragment of something. The bigger story is there somewhere, around, before the beginning and after the ending. But this... well, this is the creamy center of the Little Debbie snack. Yum.  
Again, no specific Newsie in mind, so feel free to insert whichever ink-stained fella your little heart beats for. Yay!  
So yeah, enjoy and feedback is ultra fantastic! Not the bad kind... the good kind... ok, and maybe the _constructive_ bad kind too.

_Disclaimer:_ I only own my new addiction to raspberry iced teas. Newsies belongs to Disney... the Little Debbie snacks belong to Little Debbie... and the song, on which the premise and title of this fragment is based, belongs to Paramore.

_Shout Outs:  
_A great big whopping mess of gooey thanks goes to my Reviewers of Excellence: **ChocolateCoveredJockey**, **Purple Rhapsody**, **Garen**** Ruy Maxwell**, **WinchesterOneOhOne**, **Tiny Timb**, and **Gryffindor's**** Newsie**.

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_Fragments_

**_tower_**

The way is littered with nightmares. They take form in the darkened alleyways and in the halos of street lamps. They are crawling and creeping. Little nasty things; echoing footfalls of words and deeds and tears. They tear at her fleeing feet, trying to dig in and find purchase. Trying to drag her back and hold her to their torment.

But she runs through their attempts. She lets salty tears burn her cheeks and sobs weaken her lungs. Against the chill and the fear she shudders.

She doesn't think she'll get to him. But she does.

Familiar smells and familiar sounds: sleeping newsboys, creaking mattresses, old wooden floors.

She trails through the shadows and dull moonlight. She crawls in beside him.

- - -

He feels the mattress dip and a warmth curl against his side.

He knows the smell of her before he has a moment to wonder. The sweet way it stings his insides and thumps his heart and numbs his fingers. He swears it's the most unforgettable scent in the world. And his favorite.

Her head rests against his chest, her hair billowing out in fragrant waves. He takes a deep breath, inhaling her, pushing his sleepy lungs a little further from sleep. He unlaces his fingers and pulls his arm free. His hand moves down a stray lock of her hair, past a bare shoulder, and slips comfortably around her waist.

- - -

Immediately her fingers are through his, gripping tightly, pulling his embrace taut.

She needs his strength, all the shelter he can offer.

She feels as though she's breaking apart. She needs him to hold her together.

- - -

He knows she only pulls so close when something has happened.

Tonight, she's not allowing an empty space between them. Tonight, she is close.

He knows what it means and his thoughts turn dark and red. Violent retribution pools into his imagination. Deserving deeds. Then -a deep calming breath- and his blood cools. He relaxes, focusing on her.

He tilts toward her and onto his side. He releases his other hand, placing it on along her jaw, hoping she'll have no cause to use it.

_Not again..._

It is a silent prayer.

It is a futile hope.

Her hand touches his –shaking and cold- and tugs his fingers up her cheek.

There is heat beneath his fingertips. Pain. A bruise: broken blood stretching and swelling under her pale skin.

His fingers move away. Gently. He circles the affliction, sweeping outward in a wide arch down her chin and over sticky trails of drying tears. They follow the bridge of her nose to the gap between her dry, quaking lips. He pauses there, brushing them softly with his thumb. Then he sweeps his arm over her, around her, pulling her to him.

He kisses her forehead. She burrows into him and she cries.

- - -

The monsters slink away, defeated. Their hungry eyes fade and disappear.

Here she is sheltered. Here she is safe.

He is her tower and she's climbed up and locked herself in.

- - -

Later there would be time enough for words and actions.

Later there would be time enough for anger and promises.

But for now, tonight, he is holding her to him... with him... away from...

Tonight, he is her tower.

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**_A/N:_ **So yeah... sappy kinda. The layout is not what I wanted. I was hoping to right align and left align and then center the last part, but the formatting didn't stick. Oh well, I'll survive. Anyway, plain old plain works I guess.  
I haven't any cookies today, but I'm hoping you dear wonderful readers will review anyway cause you're wonderful and fantastic and super-ultra-mega nice!  
Ok, maybe I can scrounge up some cookies... gosh...


	5. silent

_Author's Notes: _It's again that I return. I feel so guilty, leaving you all alone for so long. But I redeem myself no? I hope so. I do try. Like with this: mindless fluff! Ok, so there's some chewy gooey goodness center surrounded by fluff, but I like it. I'm a fluff fanatic, sue me. Oh well, I hope this works. I don't really know if this is a fragment, it doesn't seem to fit, but it's a short little one-shot and so I think this is the best place for it. Also, to be honest, this was a much longer idea but it began late last night and continued into my long, tired work day and although I'm very impressed I could combine this jumble together at my blah work , I'm a little sad that a long story idea was again brought down to something short and sweet. Oh well, I've got plenty other plot bunnies running rampant around my mental bunny ranch. Still, this isn't a love fic but it's a people fic, and, surprise, starkly conversation-less. I don't like conversations apparently. Or just, not now. I think it'd be fun to write a story with as much conversation and as little detail as possible. That's be cool… but I digress and no one ever reads this anyway. I could say funkymonkeychickenpogo25891transylvaniavikinghelmetsquirrel and no one would care, because they wouldn't have read it. :} Ah ha… ok, so, stupid author's notes aside, on with the latest installment of fragments! Oh, but before I go, comments are awesome and I love them dearly and greatly and they make my life wonderful. Reeeeeeeeally!

_Disclaimer: _Ok, here goes... um... I only own a cd of the newest Fall Out Boy release (yay!) and some assorted pomegranate drinks. Yum. I don't infringe on what Disney has created, but it's lovely to play in their universe. Newsies are not mine, but I wish they were. The boy in this story is probably someone they own. Sadness. :}

_Shout Outs:_  
Today's honorable mention goes to the ever wonderful **Gryffindor's** **Newsie, ChocolateCoveredJockey (you anonymous reviewer you), **and **Tiny Timb, **and to the new and equally wonderful **broadwaybear** and **AdrenalineRush16. **I thank you all from the deepest sections of my heart. Really, I do. Ps: Adrenaline, is your name inspired from what I think it's from? ("Adrenaline rush. You can Google it?") If so, I squee and hug you! If not, you really need to see a certain movie…

* * *

_Fragments_

_**silent**_

"You'll be leaving soon."

It's not a question. It's not a statement. Its words of their own accord: a spilling out; a realization, an obvious truth. And he doesn't confirm or deny her words. He takes a long pull of his cigarette and lets the smoke drift lazily out of his lungs and back into the air. The pale glow splashes on his face in an amber burst. Shadows are etched into his face along the edges of the short-lived illumination. They make his soft features hard. His silent jaw obtains a severe line; his eyes flared and bright, the flash within them lingering long after the light fades.

He is a stone that breathes.

The silence rushes between them, a dark river separating the two beings. Uncomfortable thoughts bank the silence, pressing just to the edge but going no further. Afraid to tread through, afraid they might be swept under. Or afraid they might find their way across.

A shaggy lock of hair falls forward and over his forehead, the blonde wisp darkened in the darkness. The end curls over his eye like a crooked finger. He makes no move to adjust it, pull it back, pat it into place. So it hangs.

She imagines moving it for him. Her hands ache to reach out and to release the wonder; to touch, to feel. Instead they find the holes in her shirt. Here and there. Her pale fingers wiggle at her through the checkered and worn pattern. Peek-a-boo. A perfectly unfulfilling distraction.

The thoughts gain a smidgen of courage. They teeter on the edge, swelling with curiosity, jostling each other. She turns from them, ignoring them.

The world outside is damp. Fat wetness drops from the sky to the earth. They patter against the windows, gather in the gutters, and run along the roof, finding and crawling through the cracks born out of age and wear. A dull tap of metal is the sound made as each new arrival joins their wayward companions inside the pails set at strategic intervals around the room. It's a soft calm melody. In the morning, after the silent storm has wrung out the last from its cloudy gathering, the collection in the pails will be swallowed by a rusted drain.

She listens to the rain and notices that she's forgotten the month. It's a wet season, this downpour is not the first nor will it be the last. Its spring; April showers and budding flowers. Winter was the last she remembered but now it was gone, bounded away with the turning of the world. The piles and drifts of white had swirled and melted, giving way to greens and browns and yellows; bright paints spread on a blank canvas.

She remembers when the world was cold and white and bitter. The memory sticks with her, clinging like an icicle, clearer than the years had sought to make it. It's a sweet memory, like candy. And it's warm.

It was the cold winter wind that blew him onto Duane Street. And now it would be the rain that would wash him away. Somehow that seemed quite fitting.

There's a sudden sense of loss. A burst of hot denial. There's an itch to fight. To fight for the time that cold had brought in, for its continuation with no prospect of the end they now faced. To fight against the bells that were ringing for his ears alone -a beckoning siren's call- luring him not to hot print on pressed paper but to the unknown and away. It was a selfish trio of thoughts, she knew.

But she knew, also, that this unknown he dreamed of would win over his heart. After all, it wasn't all that difficult a task when the heart that was desired was already wandering. There was life in the unknown. He'd said that once, his voice as hot and powerful as the summer sun. She remembered the look in his blue-gray eyes, eyes the color of a stormy sky, eyes traveling somewhere far away from New York streets. Life, he'd said, was waiting for them; it was not around the corner or at the end of the day or dropped into their hands like coins for their papers. Life was waiting for them to go and to find it and to take it. And he was going to do just that.

Passion like he'd spoke with that day is something breathtaking. Easily defined but not commonly felt.

He wanted that life. She'd known that the day she'd met him so many years ago now. His bones ached for it. Like clothes too tight, he was trapped, pacing, and impatient. When he stared off, away, as he did now, into the darkness, it wasn't the shadowed wooden walls he saw. It wasn't the patched and repaired bunks. It wasn't the faded bed sheets or the snoring boys wrapped inside them. He was looking at the world. And if he was seeing the shadows, it was only the shadowed places he hadn't yet been, the people he had yet to meet, and the life he had yet to live.

New York was small and the rest of the world big. A life of paper peddling could not hold up forever against such wide possibility.

His cigarette is all but ashes as he drags the remaining life from it. He regards the dead smoldering cylinder between his fingers for a moment, as though saying goodbye to brief friendship, and then drops it, crumbling the smoke and paper and embers beneath his heel.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, a thick line of humor stretches out, wrinkling at the pointed tip. It is a grin or a smirk or a smile. It is the wake of the discovery; a silent joke, a silent laugh.

She's watching him, sideways glances, under the lashes. She's pretending to examine the space before her. She's pretending to count the dust that climbs and falls through the air. Small particles, grey in the darkness, swirling in a listless dance. Her empty bunk is across from the one upon which they sit, his bunk. The sheets of her bed are straight and flat and uninterrupted by sleep. Its emptiness summons to her to fill it and wags displeased look when she does not comply.

The silence continues, deep and black. Neither is urged to disrupt it. Not yet.

He stirs, then, the statue coming to life. Creaky movement, stone against stone, slow and calculated. He pushes the hair from his face, running the curl and a mass of strands like it back and together and away. It bulges slightly, readying to fall, but stays in place.

She will miss him. The knowing is not sudden; it simply is just there, sitting beside them, in the dark, in the silence. It comes with no preamble and carries with it nothing else. It joins them as though it had always been there. And, perhaps, it had.

The tears arrive then, as they sometimes do, the follower of the understanding; an obedient pet. They fill her eyes and clog her throat. They pile and burn each other: unfriendly enemies forced together. She swallows but the mound remains, stubbornly, searing a hole through her throat, her chest.

She wants him to stay. No, she wants him to want to stay. It's the human reaction; rarely is a departure desired, no matter the size or length of absence.

"I'll miss you." The words did not hesitate upon her lips before stepping out in whispered confidence. After all, it wasn't about the declaration. She didn't fret the result. It was only about the words, their irrefutable truth, consequentially their need then to be spoken, and the voice she'd needed to speak them.

The space between them breaks then. It quakes and topples and falls onto itself, slowly, softly. It rises and swallows itself whole. Barriers and thoughts and silence collide into one another. They float away, soggy and irretrievable, disappearing.

He reaches out. A stone hand no more, now human, now soft. His hand reaches out for hers and they find each other easily in the dark. They hold on to each other, a gentle unassuming embrace.

It is a result. Nothing else to which attach meaning. It is only the action. Still, she likes the feel of his hand and hers together.

There is a paused moment that follows the silence broken and the action. The finding of words rather than the absence. He finds them and they tumble out of his mouth, a breath of syllables and sincerity.

"I'll miss you too."

The sun will rise, and with it the day will come. And, yes, someday he will leave. Pack up his things and trinkets and dreams, throw them over his shoulder and walk away. This night has not changed the course he will take. Perhaps it had altered, or something, a small addendum added in at the end, but not changed.

Yet the two hands remain together, holding on to the time and to each other.

The world is damp and quiet and very small. It is enough only to contain a girl and a boy, two handfuls of darkness, some dreams, and the silence. It is world enough tonight.

* * *

_A/N: _So there it is. Yay! Because I've been asked, the Newsie featured in this story is probably Dutchy, just because. He's endearing to me. I hope it wasn't too fluffy or too boring. It's one of those "just is" kind of fics. Works though I think. Anyway, comments are always welcome, even if they're flames, which is cool cause it's wintery cold today and I need something over which to roast my marshmellows. :}


	6. the opposite of mush

_Authors Notes: _Can you believe it?! I have spent all this time away fiddling with ideas for a whole different fandom/bandom and then, just to get the words out, I open up a doc to do a little Newsies fiction and boom (!): a fragment! Yes, I am as shocked and stunned as you. And now that we've all taken a moment to fully savor this occasion, let us move on. Hi! How are you ff dot net? How I have missed thee. Here, in honor of... erm... COLUMBUS DAY I give you a story. Its kinda long longer at least than any other fragment Ive written- and its about Mush and HOLY BATS (because its almost Halloween and we must recognize!) its got CONVERSATION! This is a new feat for me people, I hope you appreciate it. (especially you **AdrenalineRush16**!!!! Because I promised you. :] hehe, I hope you see your name too, cause its all bold and such) And... that's it. Golly, I write the worst AN's ever. I should hire someone to do this for me maybe...

_Disclaimer: _Stealing is wrong. What I do is borrow, parade, maim, pick, prod, and smash, all the while generally flouncing (that's right, _flouncing_) about and singing happy songs and dragging poor wittle copies of Disney creations along with me in my stained and gaudy yellow purse. Yes, that is what I do. I own only the Subway veggie patty that was ingested (and digested) for strength and fortitude during the work hours I misused typing up half of this. :p

_Shout Outs:  
_Today's happy shouts go to **AdrenalineRush16 **(this one is because of you, thank you), **anon**, **elleestJenn**, and **ChocolateCoveredJockey **(pick up that pen! better yet, pick one up with me! ;]) thank you all in making this worthwhile. I cherish you all!

* * *

_Fragments_

_**(the opposite of) mush**_

Mush did not have a head for headlines. It was just that way.

He liked selling papers. He liked rooming most of his nights at the Lodging House. He liked walking the streets of his home, rain or shine and all that.

Mush liked working. It gave him a sort of pride about himself when he slapped his day's earnings on the table and watched the slump in his momma's shoulders rustle a little and the possibilities glow in his sister's eyes.

Mush liked that especially.

But he was no good with creativity. He knew it. He had accepted it. And he was content to be the kid that told the costumer exactly what to expect with their purchase even when there was nothing to expect at all. Sure, it cost him a little here and there but that was okay because he'd always felt a certain sort of anxiety about lying to someones face, plus there were a few people, regular customers, who appreciated his honesty.

Still, there were times when he was less content; times when he felt as though maybe he could do something different, that he was meant for something better.

Mush didn't have a head for headlines, so he was trying his head at something else.

--

Commotion in an alley. Kids were gathering, pouring in. This was the Bowery and a mid afternoon collection of grubby, half-fed youths meant only one thing: a fight.

A bout of strength and fist, these fights were becoming common in the Bowery -specifically for about an hour around noon- and were most popular with the younger working age. Most ascribed these bouts to tension or everyday boredom. Others just saw a couple of boys hitting at each other as the natural progression of a certain age. Whatever the reason, the matches continued. No one really bothered about the fights anymore either; the coppers had long since given up on pinning down the pugilists and now only showed up in cases when the violence grew too strong or too biased. But that rarely happened because it was all for the fun and the pride anyway, not vengeance.

And the money. There was always the money.

Sweat-soaked, dirty-faced, and bone-aching they would swarm to this short gleaming burst of excitement. Kids and the various onlooker would shuffle into the alley or onto the dock, wherever the fight was set, and for the break of their day, they would enjoy. Some would bring their lunch, others would go without, dropping their few coins instead into a hat or a bucket or the palm of another and place a bet, hoping their chosen fighter would make their investment worth a grumbling stomach or stretched-thin paycheck.

--

It was on a bright shining afternoon in a dusky Bowery alley that Mush was going to raise his fists and box. And he was going to win.

--

Kid Blink eyed the very large boy standing on the other side of the alley and -not for the first time- said, "You sure youse wanna do this Mush?"

It wasn't that he was questioning his friend's mental clarity but simply stating the disquiet that had been slithering around his stomach, tying it effectively into hard knots. Kid didn't like Mush's opponent and that meant he mostly didn't like the bands of muscles flexing with the roll of his shoulders and the huge ugly grin he displayed on his huge ugly face. Someone had told him that the fella's name was Sam and Blink considered this couldn't have been right; he definitely looked more like a 'Basher'.

Mush may want to fight him, but Blink sure knew he didn't.

He cleared his throat and tried to find a sort of nonchalant way to say 'maybe you should wait till next week' but failed marvelously since what he had really wanted to say was 'wow, this guy is gonna pummel you into stew meat!' and therefore what he actually said just ending up sounding like what he wanted to say anyway.

Mush looked up at his friend and then across to his adversary. He smiled and patted his friend's shoulder.

"Come on Blink, he don't look all that mean. Plus, you aren't gonna be the one fighting him, so would it kill ya to hava little faith?" Blink looked ready to open his big mouth with some kind of apology but Mush just winked and turned to Racetrack who was currently calculating odds and keeping track of bets. The small Italian was fingering through a paltry collection of bills and coins at the bottom of an old cigar box.

"How we doing, Race?"

The boy took a long drag off a foul-looking cigar before answering, a mouthful of heady smoke pouring out between his grim words. "Odds are against ya buddy."

Mush nodded. He hadn't really expected it would be any other way. This was his first real official fight. Sure, he'd had a scuffle here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing like this.

Plus, one had to consider Sam.

Mush knew his opponent. Sam was a nice guy. They'd played poker once and he was horrible with the cards. But Mush was willing to believe Sam's ineptitude at the poker table could not also be said about his boxing. He worked in factory uptown and it showed. Plus, he'd done this before.

Upon first introductions Blink had sworn Sam lifted small buildings for sport.

Mush wasn't worried however. Or at least, he didn't feel worried. He took in all of Sam's height and width and solid mass and experience and just smiled. There was no worry or fear. Instead there was something else, something deep-rooted and well-watered and it was sprouting inside him, growing. It was a something that felt just _right._

He stepped to the center and listened to a short, red-faced and redheaded boy cite a few rules, things that were and were not acceptable. It was a very short list.

Mush nodded to Sam and Sam nodded back. Their fists clenched and readied and Mush couldn't help thinking it:

Win or lose, this was something he was going to remember to the last day of his life.

--

It began. It lasted. And then, finally, it ended.

--

His body hurt.

All of it.

_Hurt._

His ribs and his legs and his arms and his chest and his chin...

And his face!

A reflection stared out at Mush from the washroom mirror. A reflection he had trouble finding familiar.

His smooth skin was now puffed and bruised red and black. His right brow was sliced and tender and his nose looked wrong. One eye was swelling shut, by morning he wouldn't be able to see out of it, and his hearing sloshed a little when he turned too quickly. His lip was also split.

But his mouth was smiling.

And inside his hurting and bruised and bloodied fist was money. Real honest-to-goodness money. His winnings.

No. His earnings, because he'd certainly earned it.

--

Mush did not have a head for headlines. And that was okay. Because maybe he had a head for something else.

* * *

_A/N: _And... done! :] I know this title was wrong, they have always been one word but if you at it just right (upside down and with the lights off) it is _almost_ one word, and that counts for something right? Ok, I am hungry and my fingers are frozen and this song has been on repeat and it's pretty much ingrained in my ears in deep grooves (but really, that's sooo ok) and I just want to say thank you for reading and fluffing up my happy little pillow insides and if you review I just might explode into feathery bliss. Hehe, so review, because life as a feather just has to be interesting. Hehe... and, just in case you were wondering, _"help me Rhonda, yeah!, get her outta my heart!!!!"_


	7. word

_Author's Notes:_ And now, I present to you a few factoids about this chapter. First fact is that the rough draft of this was written entirely in a notepad thing on my Blackberry 8830, World Edition. Must show love, of course, or I fear it will break down on me… again. Factoid the Second is that this is my first work that is completely dialogue. Wow and yay, I think. You, my dear wonderful readers, will have to tell me what you think, but I believe that I have officially turned a new leaf (the crunchy fall yellow/orange kind) The Third and final fact is that I wrote this in bed, at around 1 am when I should have been sleeping, wearing my Mischief shirt (represent!) and sweatpants. While being slightly irrelevant, factoid the Third is just as important... and ok, was added in solely so that One and Two did not get lonely. Enjoy!

_Dedication:_ I blame this on my mother, because it was she who bought me a beautiful Oxford Dictionary/Thesaurus duo, which, regardless of her original intent in the giving of this gift, have been thoroughly abused and misused both in a general sense (horrible cross-referencing and usage skills) and in the odd ways (such as a paperweight, or as a south wall for the abode of hard covers for my Barbie dolls...)  
Also, a smidgen of this is for Freya, who quotes often from the dictionary and I love it.

_Disclaimer:_ I won't even dignify this with an answer. You and I all know the truth: that Disney won that great custody battle of '92 and now the only way to be close to my darlings is to recreate them -in horrid un-canon-esque ways and outlandish settings- in ff dot net updates. *sniffle* Yet, before we weep, I DO own my Oxford Dictionary/Thesaurus duo of awesome so YAY! Go ahead; be entranced by the blue covers and gold block lettering. Soooo pretty...

_Shout Outs:_ to **purenrgrox** and to **ChocolateCoveredJockey** and to **AdrenalineRush16** because they keep me chug-chug-chugging along this dusty way. And a very special shout out to **BrodwayBabe4**, who I missed last time, and promise to make it up to by writing the Racetrack/OC Fragment very soon!

* * *

_Fragments_

_**word**_

_What's your word of the day, Itey?_

Exquisite.

_What's ehhx-- what's it mean?_

Beautiful, Snitch, means lovely.

_Who do you think is ehh-- pretty?_

Her.

-

(Tuesday)

-

_What's your word today, Itey?_

Euphoria.

_Is that in Africa?_

Naw, it's a feeling.

_Like cos of lunch?_

Cos she knows meh name.

-

(Wednesday)

-

_Word?_

Hopeful.

_Why?_

To see her. Do you think she'll come by, Snitch? Do you? Oh I hope she does...

-

(Thursday)

-

_What's Thursday's word, Itey?_

Trepidation

_What'd you trip over?  
_  
Nothing. Means I'm nervous. As in, 'I feel trepidation about taking dis goil out tonight.'

_What you gots to be noivous about?_

_-  
_

(Friday)

-

_So how'd last night go?_

Calamitous.

_Now what does that mean?!_

Means I made a fool outta myself. Means she's never gonna wanna see a dope like me again.

_What?! That ain't true, Itey! You ain't no dope!_

Just... Leave me alone will ya Snitch? Please?

-

(Saturday)

-

_Hey Itey! What's the word?_

... stupid.

_That word's no good. Pick another one._

… dumb.

_Hey! That's just the same word almost. Pick something else._

I ain't picking another one Snitch. That's the word!

_That ain't the word! That's just how you feel!_

It aint'! It's the word!

_Well I think it's a rotten word..._

_-  
_

(Sunday)

-

_Itey?_

There isn't a word for today Snitch so don't even bother asking.

_But...  
_  
And there won't be a word for tomorrow either. Or the next day. Or the day after that! No more words, Snitch!

_Shut up will ya? That wasn't what I was gonna say!_

Well?

_Well! I was gonna ask youse if ya knew an 'ehxqueesite' goil..._

Snitch, what are you ev--

_... cos she's downstairs looking for ya!_

_-  
_

(Monday)

-

_So, Itey, did you really give up your words?_

Naw, I didn't. In fact, I've got a good one for today. Wanna hear it?

_Of course._

Jubilant.

_Er... Does that mean happy?_

Yes.

_Good. That is a good word then. I like it._

Me too, Snitch. Me too.

* * *

_A/N: _I have this belief that Itey is a mini-genius, which makes Snitch his adorable counterpart. And whatever the 1899 equivalent to my Oxford Dictionary/Thesaurus duo of awesome was, I think Itey had it. At least for the purpose of this fic. Hehe.  
So… Review? Cos I love those very much :]


	8. belated

_Author's Notes: _These things are never intentional -I am discovering this- for when they are intended, then are they never finished. Hence do I have to sneak up on stories and pretend I am not tinkering with them before they notice, lest they run away, for I was never good in track. (But I really do like using the word "lest".) Anyway, this is an apology for what its worth. For the time in between updates and all that. Thank you for sticking with me for so long. Ps: for being so wonderful here's a story! Yay you!

_Disclaimer: _I don't own. Seriously, I don't. Yet I aim to misbehave always.

_Shout Outs: _many thanks to **Eruanna Undomiel**, **AdrenalineRush16**, **Eavis**, and my dear **Gryffindor's Newsie** (who needs to hit me up on lj or msn im sometime soon!). You are the reason I continue.

* * *

__

Fragments

****

belated

He was sweeping the previous night's snow fall from the top step. And he was minding his own business, pointedly intent on finishing his least favorite chore in record time, when she bounded up.

"Excuse me..."

He stopped his sweeping, reluctantly, and looked up.

She was wrapped a long brown coat and multiple scarves draped around her neck, each of them a bright opposing color. Her hair was parted and sectioned into two golden braids. Her face was bare and her nose was freckled and pale, although under that bright red sheen of chill it was hard to tell. She had a look of familiarity but he couldn't place any of her fairly common features. She had a pleasant smile however. And she was looking at him, a quiet curiosity in her countenance.

"Yes?" His tone set a less than inviting atmosphere for conversation but she seemed undeterred.

"Well, you... you're a newsboy aren't you? You sell up by Chaplin?"

He knew his favorite route well and he nodded, although the idea of some stranger knowing the same information made him hesitate slightly.

She grinned, as though this confirmation pleased her.

The girl gestured to the Lodging House behind him. "And you live here?" There was no hint of contempt in her voice, only the sound of genuine interest. He nodded again.

And again she smiled.

He was beginning to like the sight of her mouth brimming wide happiness and in spite of his original disinclination for pleasantries, he had a sudden desire to say things that made her give him the same turn of mouth.

"If it isn't too much to bother you with a final inquiry: what is your name?"

He paused and deliberated this. He'd heard somewhere it was not wise to give out information to strangers. He couldn't remember if there was a pretty girl exception to that advice. Yet, as he had already verified both his general area of business and his home he decided to chance the odds.

"They call me Specs," he told the girl, spilling out his nickname before his given name could surface.

She didn't giggle or demean this announcement as others in the past had. Instead she flushed a little in her cheeks and then gave him a softer, smaller smile. Specs could feel his spirits warm.

"Thank you, Specs."

And with that she dashed off along the snow dusted ground. Specs watched her go and noticed for the first time that she was not alone. At the corner of the next street he saw her join two girls. He watched them confer briefly with each other, during which exchange the two she had met look back at him. Realizing suddenly that he was most likely the subject of their discussion, a flush rose to Specs' cheeks and he hurriedly turned away his face and tried to remember what he had been doing only a minute ago.

The forgotten broom grimaced at him from his right hand as if to remind him. He gave it a violent push for its unnecessary opinion.

Specs angled slightly, stealing a glance back to the corner with the most silent of hopes that she would still be there. The corner was empty. He tried to swallow the lump of disappointment.

"Well," he muttered to himself, returning to the half-swept step and the mournful-looking broom, "that was pointless."

--

The next day a package arrived for Specs. It was a small rectangular box, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Inside, on top of a pair of black wool gloves was a small folded piece of paper. Specs smiled as he read it.

_Dear Mr. Specs,_

_I have seen you without these the past few weeks and thought you might do with a good pair. I do hope they are the right size._

_We can call this a belated Christmas present._

_Yours,_

_Anna Poppenwell

* * *

_

_A/N: _this story was born from a snowfall and a Friday Night Boys song. Its nothing too great but I guess I liked it. I like to believe that Anna became Mrs. Specs later in life... because I am an incorrigible romantic. Feedback is welcomed with open arms and as always is gathered and put into a special box where I can cherish them forever. This box has cut out hearts and little curlicues on it :}


	9. scab

_Author's Notes: _what have I to say for myself? NEWSIES IS COMING TO BROADWAY! Oh my, I think I almost fainted. We should all just take a moment and let that happiness sink in, because it is happy. *takes a moment/sighs happily*  
This story was born from writer's block. Well, not really, but close enough. The epic conclusion of Slinks and Spot is a gigantic muddled mess spanning seven different word documents and frankly is making my head hurt for want of perfection and the right words. Lord, give me strength to end it well. Anyway, thus was this story spawned from a recent re-watch of my favorite live-action Disney masterpiece and completed from a lingering idea I may have had all the time.  
Additionally, I seem to always be apologizing in these things, so here I go again, because I do feel bad you know: sorry for the wait, and thank you for being awesome. :)

_Disclaimer: _I own memories and pipe dreams but never the real thing.

_Shout Outs:_ Thanks and love and dreams of sugar-plum Newsies to **Eavis**, **LoriEchelon**, **Ealasaid Una**, and **AdrenalineRush16** (miss our pm's. we should do one again soon!)!

* * *

_Fragments_

**scab**

They crowd as you exit the gates. A sea of grim faces and tired bodies comes together, unifying, and waiting, it seems, to swallow you whole.

Yesterday, you were only a boy. Today, you are someone else, and that same is now standing on the brink of a thing great and shattering and larger than any once-boy should ever have to endure.

You are standing on the makings of a war you didn't choose and don't understand.

They crowd and jostle and push. Tension, emotion bent like a tight bow, hovers above them. They are waiting, waiting for you to take a side; waiting for you pick a place to stand when this crusade rises up, rears it's head, and strikes.

The space between you and them crackles and burns. There is a line drawn and it's a question, the words and the warning spoken in a silence so loud it thunders in your ears.

They are hungry for justice, for the wrong against them to be righted. They have stomachs so long empty, and their gaunt eyes shine with longing. Insatiable longing. They must take this charge; they must fight this fight, for there is no alternative. No graceful goodbye and no giving up. To lay down their cause would be to die.

You do not know the need that drives them. You have a home, a family. A father and a mother and a little brother, full of fresh teeth and laughter. This is not your life. Your destiny is not written in smudges of ink nor weighed in a handful of coins.

But does that make you the enemy? Are you to stand against them?

Yesterday, you were only a boy. Today, you are frozen solid, clutching your papers to your heaving chest. The bundle is heavy and hot in your arms. The headlines burn.

This is not your battle. This is not your war. But you will be made to fight it nonetheless.

They grow impatient. Their shuffles and murmurs grow louder and emotion snaps, leaking out as hurled words and nasty names. The volley crashes into you and those who stand with you like stones. The names bite and hurt.

Yesterday, you were only a boy.

Today, you are vile and repulsive. Dirty and rotten.

You are a scab.

* * *

_A/N:_ a nameless _parttime_ newsie. This is really new for me. A thought a look at the other side was an intriguing idea, and I hope it was enjoyed. Feel free to leave your speculations, hates, loves, and dirty laundry in a comment box. I appreciate them all :D


End file.
